


The Universe that Loves You

by tealmoon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Male Solo, Masochism, Masturbation, No Genitals, Other, Self-Bondage, interesting uses for magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealmoon/pseuds/tealmoon
Summary: Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to stop trying for a little while.





	

There was a palpable shift in the air, when Papyrus strode back into town. It felt like every eye was on him as he walked through, and he made sure he wasn’t limping, wasn’t showing any pain at all, though his injuries were clear and numerous. Undyne hadn’t gone easy on him, though they were best friends; he wouldn’t have been able to forgive her if she had.

Everyone in Snowdin knew his ambitions— he had told them all, at length and with considerable volume. They deserved to know who they were dealing with, a Royal Guard-to-be, and now, finally, an official Guard. The fact that he had returned at all, head held high, was nearly proof in itself.

Entry into the Royal Guard wasn’t particularly complicated. There were the interviews and the medical examinations and the endless bouts of training, but a monster was only truly inducted if they could last in a battle against a high-ranking Guard. For the applicants from Snowdin and Waterfall, that meant battling against Undyne. The point wasn’t necessarily to win (he could admit he was still years behind Undyne in skill), merely to prove they could hold their own.

And Papyrus had. She had left him covered in fractures, and he would have immense bruises the next day, but he had landed a number of hits on her as well. The grin she had given him by the end was enough of a victory for him.

His pride held in the time it took him to reach home, and he unlocked the door and slipped inside, making sure he had locked it again. Now safe, his shoulders slumped, and he lurched over to the couch. The walk back had sapped his remaining strength, and he had declined to use the Riverperson’s services, knowing it would appear weak. He had a third of his HP remaining. It was still a considerable amount, but he wasn’t used to losing so much in a single incident. It took a few minutes to heave himself up from the couch, which didn’t feel as lumpy as it usually did, now that he was reluctant to leave it.

Every bone in his body seemed to hurt as he inched up the stairs and into his bedroom. He had been excused from work for the rest of the day, and the coming few days, but he could still accomplish something during his little vacation.

He crossed the room to his closet and began to push around the clothes hangers inside. He didn’t know when the Royal Guard ceremony would be held; that was up to the King’s schedule. Was it too soon to pick something to wear?

The wire of a hanger bent under his suddenly clenched fingers, letting its shirt fall to the floor. He didn’t have any proper suits; they didn’t have the money to tailor something that would fit a skeletal body. And all of his dresses, which usually looked so pretty, now seemed trashy, inappropriate, as if he was a cocktail waiter and not a military hopeful. Were any of his clothes good enough? Maybe they would take one look at him and laugh him out of the Capitol.

And that worry brought a flood of others. Would the King and Queen disapprove of him, what if he did something wrong, would there be an assassination attempt there, would Sans be safe—

Shit. Of course, he wanted Sans to come to his formal induction into the Royal Guard. If he had his way, Sans would be the only audience, the only person who deserved to watch. Just Undyne presenting him to the King and Queen, with Sans off to the side where no one would take notice of him. But in reality, there were two other new Guards to be introduced, so their families would be there, and all the current Guards would attend, and a crowd of onlookers sizing him up, deciding that Sans was his weak point. The failed recruits were an obvious threat, though not a particularly strong one, as they’d be Guards as well if they were worth anything at all. And there were the political dissidents that hated everyone who served the monarchy, and Papyrus’s personal enemies that would resent his sudden power over them...

He doubled over, teeth grinding until his whole skull ached. It was too much. Could he handle any of it? Was it going to make their lives worse, rather than improving them? His legs began to shake, and he quickly sunk to his knees on the threshold, before he could fall. His body seemed to move without command, crawling further into the closet and pulling the door shut behind him.

With the door closed, and an old towel pushed into the crack between the door and the carpet, it was completely dark in the closet, and silent aside from his clothing swishing above him. Everything smelled like laundry detergent: safe, clean, still, like the world had stopped the second he stepped in. It had been a long time since he had needed to hide away like this, but he was a Royal Guard now. Hadn’t he earned a few minutes of quiet, however immature it was? He just wanted—needed— to rest for a moment.

He pulled his boots off (were they dirty? did they need polishing? _no, stop thinking_ ), and set them aside, farther back in the closet. His jacket went with it, carefully folded, and then the pieces of his armor.

Almost in a trance, Papyrus rearranged himself. Back straight, kneeling with his legs spread, the back of his skull against the wall. The position hurt initially, but he settled there until it faded to a dull ache. He made sure he was well-positioned and then let a flicker of magic out. A single bone, hovering in front of him and glowing blue, lit up the closet. He directed it downward with a look, letting it sink down. He wanted to draw out the moment as the blue magic eased into the fabric of his pants and lower, pinning his femur to his tibia.

He completed the action with his other leg and sighed, his lower body properly immobilized. Papyrus knew his blue magic as intimately as every other type of magic he possessed and knew how much damage he would take if he failed. It wouldn’t be dangerous unless he set off a blue bone through his spine or skull, though the idea made him blush. Even after the fight with Undyne, his HP was solid enough to take any mistakes.

Slowly, he lifted his arms, placing his hands against the wall and level with his head. Starting with his left, he eased two more blue bones into himself, through each wrist. Even twitching his fingers would be enough to trigger them.

Papyrus could move his head and ribcage, enough to breathe and look around, but anything else was forbidden now. He couldn’t fidget or pick at the cracks in his fingers or pace around endlessly, getting more panicked with each step. There was a faint humming that one could hear if they were close to a source of blue magic, and he let the sound drown out his thoughts. Everything would be okay. He was a capable, resourceful skeleton, and once he had calmed down, he’d be able to handle everything.

For a few minutes, he just stayed still, feeling himself empty out. No thoughts, no emotions. But then, his magic began to stir inside of him again, outside of conscious control. With hazy vision, he watched a wisp of it coalesce in front of him, white rather than blue. It formed into a skeletal hand with long, delicate fingers, and although it looked ghostly and insubstantial, he knew it had enough physicality for its...uses. He hadn’t created it on purpose, but clearly some part of his mind wanted what would come next.

As he watched, his breathing growing heavier, it unbuckled his belt and inched down into the shell of his pelvis, the only part of him that didn’t have any scars or marks at all. His summoned hand didn’t have the cracks of his real fingers, so it was almost jarring to ‘touch’ himself without each movement scraping and catching against smoother bone. It moved through his pelvic cavity, carefully to not become stuck, and began to circle against the holes of his sacrum. It would have been easier to reach from the back, but the position rubbed its wrist against his pubic symphysis pleasantly, so he didn’t care.

Another hand formed and began to run up and down his spine, barely brushing its fingers against the bone. He wanted to arch up to meet it but kept himself still. Anything more than a shiver would break the blue magic binding his legs.

The movements were too gentle, too slow. Anything more, and he’d accidentally move and hurt himself. But what was a little more pain? The hand at his spine tightened for a moment, and he moaned loudly, unable to hold back. He was a second away from rocking into it, regardless of the damage, but it returned to light touches, ghosting its fingers against the vertebrae. His own magic was teasing him. The hand at his pelvis started to trace along the curve of his ischium, but that too was unsatisfying. He wanted it to grab at him, to rub harder, but it ignored his mental commands.

The appearance of a third construct brought him to his breaking point, as it reached past his shirt and into his rib cage. He could faintly see the red glow of his Soul starting to form, demanding attention. Instead, the hand began the most thorough, useless examination of the inside of his ribs: a pleasant feeling, but he needed it to touch his Soul, which was starting to ooze, dropping splatters of red on his hypersensitive pelvis. It was touching everything in his chest cavity but his Soul, even as he tried to shift his ribcage to force contact. He could feel his Soul start to tremble and ache, longing to be stroked, even if it was as gentle as the other touches.

He could feel the beginnings of frustrated tears begin to form but couldn’t bring himself to be ashamed. If he allowed it to carry on like this, he could be there for hours without any relief.

It was too much.

Without even a breath to ready himself, he tore his wrists away from the wall, hearing them audibly crack as they broke through the blue magic. His body lit up with pain as he shoved one hand down into his pants and one up his shirt. The conjured hands dissolved as he took both his Soul and his tailbone in hand, and _squeezed_.

A scream tore out of him as he came, doubling over until his head rested on his knees. The movement disturbed the blue magic in his legs, and the second burst of pain carried him through his violent, shaking climax. His Soul gushed with crimson, soaking his shirt and even seeping into his pants.

The aftershocks seemed to last for minutes, and he sank back against the wall, panting softly. It had emptied his mind outside of a haze of _it hurts, it feels amazing_ , and when coherent thoughts finally trickled back in, they were calm. Papyrus stood on shaky legs, stepping back into his room. Luckily his femurs could take much more than the delicate bones of his wrists, otherwise it would have been hellish to stand or walk. He had regained his faculties enough to strip out of his sodden clothing, before crawling into bed. The room was too bright after all that hazy darkness, and he buried his skull in the pillow. It wasn’t a nap; he was just resting his eye sockets!

His phone buzzed against his bedside table, and he levitated it over. Yes, it was lazy, but his wrists still stung and shook too much to carry anything. He’d have to visit the healer anyway, to tend the wounds of his initiation, so what were a few more fractures? Undyne had promised she wouldn’t ruin the surprise, so Sans’ text was the usual: he was on the way home, did Papyrus want him to pick anything up? They both did it multiple times a day, the same scripts each time, to assure each other that their brother was alive, and no one had stolen their phone in an attempt at impersonation.

He wanted to tell Sans in person rather than texting the news, wanted to see him smile for real. Now that Papyrus was a Guard, Sans wouldn’t have to rush to find extra gold for the house payments, or insist he was too tired to eat so Papyrus could have his share, or wear the same ratty shirt for a month because everything else had holes too massive to patch. His future salary would be enough to comfortably support them.

They could go to the healer, together, and once he was put back together, he would make them dinner—no, they could order in dinner. It was a special occasion! He had earned it! Hesitantly, he texted Sans to pick up drinks for them, though that was probably hinting at the surprise. They only had a few beers left in the back of the fridge, and he wanted to make a celebration of it.

Things were changing for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not very confident or practiced with writing explicit things, but I wanted to finish this in time for Boss's Day, which Type informed me of so it's all her fault, really. This is probably a special occasion, since I don't think I'm going to write smut very often. (I say that, but a month ago, I was telling myself I was much too ace to ever post anything lewd.) 
> 
> Title comes from To Myself, by Franz Wright, which maybe is a little lofty for a smutty oneshot, but whatever, it's a lovely poem.


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